


The Cruelty of Gods

by kitkatkaylie



Series: Jonmund Summer 2020 [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Canon Divergence - Battle of Winterfell | Final Battle Against the White Walkers, Day 7, Jonmund Summer 2020, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26198734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitkatkaylie/pseuds/kitkatkaylie
Summary: The flowers seemed to be mocking him. The flowers seemed to be mocking Tormund’s grief.Written for Jonmund Summer 2020 Day 7: Alternate Universe
Relationships: Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow
Series: Jonmund Summer 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893670
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	The Cruelty of Gods

**Author's Note:**

> My last one for Jonmund Summer! And it’s yet another angsty one (which I do apologise for, as they’ve all been angsty this time...)

The flowers seemed to be mocking him. Their bright colours cheerful and they danced in the breeze like maids at a ball.

Or at least, what Tormund imagined a ball looked like. He’d been invited to one before, invited by the Queen in the North, but he had refused to return to Winterfell. Refused to return to the place which haunted him in his dreams, the man buried there who haunted nearly his every moment.

What have beens and might have beens swirled around his head at the thought of the man he had loved and lost. 

He had lost so many loved ones in his life, and yet the death of Jon Snow still haunted him in a way that few other deaths had. 

Perhaps it was because he had lost Jon so soon after they had confessed their feelings, perhaps it was because he had died mere hours after the battle they had spent so long preparing for had been won.

It had been sudden, Jon’s death, one moment they were celebrating the dawn and their victory and the next Jon had collapsed into the mud with blood seeping through his leathers. 

They had rushed him into the relative warmth of the castle, rushed him to his chambers in the hopes that they would be able to staunch the bleeding and save him.

That hope had lasted until they had undone his leathers and seen the wounds.

They were not new wounds. They were old, so very old, ones that Tormund remembered well. Ones which had taken Jon’s life before. 

The stab wounds on his chest had opened up again, had begun bleeding anew. They had never really healed, but once uncovered in Winterfell they had pulsed like they were fresh, raw and bloody and so obviously painful.

Tormund hurt to remember it, to remember the tears of Jon Snow’s family, of the way he had tried to cling to life. They had all been called away at one point or another, called from his deathbed by duty and the demands of a Queen who was still to go mad and destroy a city. At one point it had just been he and Tormund together, alone in a room that smelt of blood and death and hopelessness.

Tormund had been unable to help himself, he had taken Jon’s hand in his own and confessed the feelings he had for him. And Jon had confessed that he felt the same. It had been bittersweet, to know that had they just spoken to each other earlier, had they been brave enough, they might have had some time together. 

As it was they had merely shared a single kiss, a single expression of love in the last minutes they ever spent alone. 

All too soon Jon Snow’s family had returned, and all too soon the wounds in his chest, the reminders of his men’s mutiny stole his final breath. 

Jon Snow had died once more, the life the Red God had granted him stolen once more now his task was complete. 

Tormund screamed at the flowers, the sign of a summer that Jon would never get to see, and did not bother to brush away the tears that ran down his face. 

The gods were cruel, this he now knew, and they were merely the playthings and pawns which which the gods played. Jon should have lived, should have survived the wars and the battles he had fought for so long. He should have been able to live to see the summer, should have been able to live to see the peacetime.

But the gods were cruel and he was gone. 

And the flowers still danced mockingly at Tormund’s grief. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Find me on tumblr @istaricelebelasse


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